Getting Papered In Paris

Less Fear and Angst Than Usual

Paris:- Thursday, 2. December 1999:- Nobody ever
talks much about getting their papers - 'Green Card' - or
the French 'Carte de Séjour,' because it is more
painful than going to the dentist.

I don't know why it is an unspeakable subject. It is a
process full of anxiety; sometimes tragedy or comedy, and
it can be very literary too, because it can make you think
of Kafka's administrators.

The 'Carte de Séjour' is portable proof that I
have passed a paper-test that I have a permission to live
and work in France. French citizens have them too; they are
like internal passports, or universal ID cards.

Sometimes, officials ask to see them if you are trying
to conduct some official business or are mistakenly rounded
up with 'all the usual suspects.'

Cashiers at hypermarchés will ask to see them if
you pay with a cheque. In both cases, a driver's license is
often a good substitute because these are good for
'life.'

Last summer, my moving guys threw my stuff off their
truck and carted it into my new apartment in Paris on
Monday, 19. July. My arrondissement city hall is
two blocks away and this is where I went to officially
change the address of my 'Carte de Séjour.'

A form says this has to be done within eight days. It
can't be done within eight days, because to prove residence
you have to provide copies of new utility bills. It takes
at least a couple of months until the first ones
arrive.

When I finally got around to it, the local city hall
told me they didn't do it anyway and I had to go to the
police instead. This isn't far away, but when I finally got
around to it there was a little confusion.

The cop shop had a small hall for everybody 'not
French.' This includes citizens of some 250 countries; but
does not include those of the European Union.

For this, I went back to the policeman at the door and
he showed me down a hallway into a tiny room full of big
cops.

The cop with the least experience got to do my change of
address. We didn't get far into this before it occurred to
all the other cops in the tiny room, except me, that I was
not changing addresses within Paris, but from another
Department in France, to Paris.

All went dead stop. They said I'd have to go the main
Préfecture de Police on the Ile de la Cité in
the center of Paris. Gloom settled in.

This is the rumored horror or horrors - maybe even worse
than the huge birdcage of a Préfecture at Nanterre
for the Hauts-de-Seine Department, which I have already
experienced.

But - ray of hope - the information sheet the cops gave
me said I could save myself the trip by doing it by mail. I
telephoned to confirm this. The response was, 'Yes, but
you'll have no passport or Carte de
Séjour and no receipt for your application in the
meantime.' Gloom fully descended.

There are 'stories' about the Paris Police
Préfecture; people have had to go on 'cures' after
the experience of it.

The line forms to the left of
that door over there; with a roof for rainy days.

When I first moved out to the Yvelines Department, the
Versailles version was in computer turmoil, and their 'in
the meantime' took 18 months. Versailles also assigned my
wife two new nationalities as well: first Canadian and then
Iranian.

The whole system was new on account of a wave of
terrorism at the time. She was terrified to be checked by
the ticket controllers on the commuter train to Paris.
Iranians were having a hard time.

When I took her Carte de Séjour back to the cops
the second time - for the 'Iranian mistake,' our 'personal'
cop went orbital and got on the phone to Versailles right
then and there.

After issuing a card, the paper dossier would be
destroyed - they had computers! - after only five days. To
correct the nationality once the papers were vaporized - it
would be back to square one.

We were saved in the nick of time by our alert
'personal' cop. Ten years afterwards, the renewal was
routine. Impeccable new cards came back.

Now again, years later, my 'finally getting around to
it' has taken some time. I also have a personal deadline
for getting the address officially changed on the card. I
want to register to vote for the next city elections in
Paris, and the deadline for signing up is only 28 days
away.

To change the address on my Carte de Séjour -
still valid for another eight years - I have to show my
passport. I looked at this and it said, 'expired in April.'
I was under the impression 10-year passports lasted
forever.

Getting a new one is not difficult, but it took its time
on account of the Irish national saying - 'there's time.'
Any old photos are okay, so I got a set for the passport
and the Carte de Séjour too. My new dentist
witnessed my signature.

After waiting five weeks I called up the passport office
and the lady said she'd been on holiday, but sent the new
passport, good-for-ten-years, two days later.

It is a hand-made one. If you have never seen one of
these, they look like you made it yourself on your kitchen
table. One time, the police in Palamós thought it
looked fake. They are just as valid as any other
though.

I phoned the Préfecture de Police two days ago,
to try and find out about their situation. They said,
'don't come on Wednesday.' I should be there at 8:30 at the
latest. The last time I had to go to Nanterre, there were
500 people already in line at 8:30.

Yesterday, I put my packet of paper together. The old
Carte de Séjour, the new passport, the electricity
bill and the phone bill, my lease contract, my social
security card and my unemployment card; and photocopied the
works. It's best to be over-papered for these things.

This morning radio France-Info wakes me at 7:00 by
blaring the latest news about the civil war at Seattle's
WTO convention. Sounds as hairy as Chicago in '68. The
protestors outnumber everybody else, but are claimed to be
losing.

When I come out of the métro at Cité I see
that at least 100 people are in line already, stretched
from the entry to the Rue de la Cité. Not too bad;
for this line includes citizens of 250 countries, citizens
of EU countries and French citizens who have business
here.

After a couple of minutes the line starts to move.
Inside, it is the usual security check and I pass
my camera around the bypass of the X-ray scanner - so
it gets impounded. No photos allowed of the cop shop.

When I find the EU nationals' office in the back of the
interior courtyard, I get ticket number 99. The reception
lady gives me a form to fill out. The displayed numbers are
about 392, so I wonder what the system is.

When I see '402' appear, I look at my ticket closely and
see there is a three hidden beneath a paper clip, making my
number 399.

I crash the closest workstation and the lady manning it
agrees to take my case. She is pleased that I have also
brought photocopies of the vital papers. Minor confusion
arises when I give her the photocopy for the electricity
bill and the original of the phone bill.

She says, "Two photos please."

I know exactly where they are not, and where they are -
at home.

I don't have change for the photo-automat. At the main
entry they tell me to try entry 'F' in the courtyard
because I'm not allowed go out the entry to the newspaper
kiosk and get change.

It is the cashiers' place, with signs all over it saying
'no change.' The guy behind the thick glass changes my 50
franc note while looking at his dwindling supply of
change.

The first photo-automat cabin is out to lunch. A
Chinese-looking guy takes ten minutes before he gets a pose
he likes in the second one.

I don't bother adjusting the chair wheelie, and stretch
my neck to get my head into the mugshot zone. Scratch the
first pose: the second is no better, but shoot it
anyway.

When I get back with the photos, the lady stiffs another
guy with his bundle of papers and photocopies; and
complains that the photos are still wet - but gives me the
receipt, and gives back the new passport, the old card and
the utility bills. The pickup date on the receipt is
Tuesday, 11. January 2000.

At the entry I pick up the camera from a lady who says
she remembers my name from the phone calls. The cops let me
out by the entry, which is forbidden; but we are all pals
by the time I finish my usual chit-chat.

In thanks, I shoot the Préfecture entry from the
Place Lépine, which is also probably forbidden. You
can look at it all day or sketch it, but taking a photo of
it might be a serious crime.

The sun is peeping timidly through the clouds so I tour
the Cité a bit, taking other photos; especially of
the Japanese who are taking photos of each other behind
Notre Dame.

In front, the years' old scaffolding is almost all down.
I think they want it ready for Christmas. From most angles,
the old cathedral looks almost new.

When the camera's batteries start to show 'low' I ride
the bus up to my place and hit my city hall for the
voter
registration. I still have the utility bills. These alone
are good enough. They care not a pin for the address-change
Carte de Séjour receipt.

Once the guy finds out the obscure computer-name of the
village where I last lived and was registered to vote, he
has us in business. I sign off the old registration and
sign up as a voter on the new Paris address.

Notre
Dame is almost ready to have millions of new photos taken
of it.

Last June I voted in the European elections. It was the
first time in 30 years of taxpaying in Europe that I've
been able to vote. Next time will be for the Paris
municipal election, in the spring of 2001.

Not that I am considering it, but I believe I am also
now eligible to run as a candidate for the European
parliament. Riding up to Brussels on the TGV may be quick,
but Brussels has lousy weather.

But all - how many? - of the Irish who live in Paris'
14th arrondissement need representation at the European
level. Even though I am not running, if elected, and I if
need to attend a session in Brussels, I'll have to run a
raffle to pay the fare.

Getting 'papered' makes one power-mad. Your 'Ed' in
Paris is street-legal to ignore all the laws in sight
again. Almost like any bona-fide citizen.